


Seeing Light

by irisbleufic



Series: Playing for Keeps [10]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Alliances, Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Blackmail, Consequences, Court of Owls, Dark Comedy, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Drama, Enemies, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Gotham City Police Department, Grief/Mourning, Heroes to Villains, Humor, Interconnectedness, Intersex Character, Intrigue, Jerome Valeska Lives, Jewish Character, Journalism, Knifeplay, Lies, Loss, M/M, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Mystery, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 05, Secrets, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, The Rogues (DCU) As Family, Trans Character, Twins, Villains, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24905689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: The Talon led them up several echoing, opulent flights of stairs, bringing them to a halt on the landing. A second Talon opened the ebony double doors from the inside, and both Talons escorted them into a high-ceilinged room with a long table and a crackling fireplace.Bruce recognized the space. The effect it had on him was visceral, fight or flight. He felt Jeremiah’s hand curl around his.At the head of the table, where Kathryn Monroe had once sat, there was an owl-masked figure in an off-the-shoulder black satin dress. Whoever she was, her hair was elegantly piled on top of her head, and she wore a pair of glittering diamond drop earrings.“Where is Ms. Monroe?” Bruce demanded, unable to keep anger out of his voice. “What’s this about?”“Where are your manners?” asked the young woman, something about the timbre of her voice making the hair on Bruce’s arms stand on end.
Relationships: 514A & Jerome Valeska, 514A & Jerome Valeska & Kathryn Monroe, 514A & Kathryn Monroe, 514A/Jerome Valeska, Bruce Wayne & Jeremiah Valeska & Valerie Vale, Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon & Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon & Valerie Vale, Olga & Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Playing for Keeps [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300913
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	1. Finders

It had been a week and a day since the discovery Jerome’s casket was empty, not that Jeremiah was counting. His nightmares were bad enough.

Bruce had tried to prevent Jeremiah’s paranoia from taking hold—even though he must’ve been experiencing the same flashback, only worse.

Jeremiah had comforted Bruce late that night when he’d awakened gasping and shivering. Bruce had refused to say as much, but Jeremiah knew it was the memory of regaining consciousness two years ago in Jerome’s open, occupied grave.

Jim Gordon had attempted to call them every few days since the shocking exhumation, but they were united in silence. The cover-up would prove difficult if any of Jim’s in-the-know colleagues refused to echo Jim’s press statement. _Jerome Valeska’s remains have been cremated and sent to their final resting place on the Wayne Estate_. Simple, unless you had a conscience.

Neither of them had slept soundly since that gaping, mocking casket was dragged into daylight. 

While it was unlikely Jerome had escaped death a second time, it was confirmed that, two years ago, Jim had ordered his flunkies to take the damned thing back to Stoker, place Jerome’s body inside, and re-inter it. All of that had been accomplished in the midst of an evacuation.

Now, it was Sunday morning, and they were stuck in Bruce’s office on the top floor of Wayne Tower waiting to meet with Valerie Vale. She’d been unable to clear her schedule during the week, although the article she was poised to write about the exhumation hadn’t yet appeared. 

As far as Olga knew, Vale’s lens hadn’t captured what _wasn’t_ in the casket. Nonetheless, Bruce needed to make sure, and Jeremiah concurred.

Besides, there was another matter to raise with Vale, on which Jeremiah was happy to take point.

“Thanks for letting me come in on a weekend,” said the reporter, as Bruce led her into the office.

“It’s no trouble, Ms. Vale,” Bruce said, showing her to the chair opposite where he and Jeremiah were seated on the other side of the desk. “We wanted to meet at your convenience. Our schedules are always negotiable.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult this must be after…well, old wounds,” Valerie said, unclasping her bag, removing a pair of folders. “I know what you want to talk about, so I’ve brought the photos for you to sign off on.”

“We mostly wanted to find out when the story would run, but that’s thoughtful,” Bruce said, accepting the first folder. He set it on the desk so both he and Jeremiah could see, flipping it open to reveal what was inside.

Jeremiah was relieved to note that, while the number of photographs was exhaustive, none of the several snapped while Jerome’s casket was open captured the interior. Jim and the Coroner looked dour, but they would’ve looked like that even if Jerome’s corpse had been present.

“This one,” Jeremiah said, tapping the glossy print of Bruce comforting him. “May I keep it?”

“Keep all of them,” Valerie replied. “That was my intention. All I need is the digital files.”

“Please email those,” Bruce said, his eyes already fixed on the second folder she had in her lap. “Was there something else you wanted to share?”

Valerie handed Bruce the second file. “I should have surrendered this one when I gave you those batches of Jim’s monster hunts I staked out. I held this one back because…fuck, who knows why. It wasn’t one that showed him making a capture or a kill. The subject in this set got away.”

Jeremiah watched an unreadable expression flit across Bruce’s features as he examined the folder’s contents. There were a dozen photographs of Jim—dressed in black, weapon in hand—in various stages of pursuit after a slight-seeming figure with chin-length dark hair. 

Jim’s quarry was so swift that none of the shots had captured a clear view of its face. The one that had captured the figure clearing a six-foot-high fence ended the sequence. It also showed a winded Jim doubled over at the foot of the fence.

“As far as I could tell, he was just chasing some kid,” Valerie said, hugging her arms in clear discomfort. “Creepier than him chasing down the Indian Hill subjects. Good on whoever that is for getting away.”

Bruce closed the folder abruptly, snapping his head up to regard her with tense displeasure.

“How much were you hoping to get for these?” he asked. “I’ll pay you as much for them as I paid for the capture and kill sets.”

“Thank you,” said Valerie, relieved. “The story on what you two did for Jerome is my last at the _Gazette_. I’m getting laid off.”

Jeremiah regretted how he’d reacted when he’d seen her taking photos in Stoker. It made the issue he wanted to discuss seem timely.

“I have a job for you, Ms. Vale,” he said slowly, “if that’s something you’d be interested in.”

Bruce composed himself, curtly stacking the folders. “You have my full support, should you choose to accept it. Jeremiah has caught wind of some unusual activity from one of his subdivision employees.”

“You’re familiar with Dr. Victor Fries, I take it,” Jeremiah said. “He’s been working for us since reunification, when he was…inconvenienced. It truly pained me to see a brilliant mind brought so low.”

“Yeah, but whoever dumped his icy butt on the stairs of the GCPD had some guts,” Valerie said.

“Victor was a model employee for the first year,” Jeremiah continued. “When he asked for permission to take private clients—that is, keep their deceased loved ones in cryogenic storage until such time as he perfected his revival techniques—I assented. There are other companies that offer similar. Victor seemed selective. I made a point of screening his candidates at first, so that impression held true. The paperwork is always scrupulously kept. I had no reason to think there was anything untoward.”

Valerie was struggling not to laugh, but their business relationship made it forgivable.

“Huh, okay,” she said. “You suspect he’s not sticking to the straight and narrow like you guys?”

“Sarcasm acknowledged,” Jeremiah deadpanned, glancing sidelong at Bruce. “My assistant reviews the security feeds. Victor works late hours. I personally gave him clearance to do so.”

“Something bizarre on the recordings?” Valerie asked, fascinated. “Unethical research practices like he first got busted for? Necrophilia? Black market organ trade? The latter might track.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, no,” Jeremiah said. “Sometimes clients change their minds, take their loved ones back for burial. The two pods released last night, for example, looked legitimate. Victor did what he usually does, which is accompany his delivery team to…wherever the client asks. Usually to private grounds—family estates, private cemeteries, et cetera. The pods double as caskets. His system is airtight.”

“I’m having a hard time imagining why you’d want me to follow him around and take snaps.”

Jeremiah lowered his gaze and gestured to Bruce, tired of talking. He was getting a headache.

“A friend who works in pharmaceuticals reported an odd request Victor made,” Bruce said.

Valerie tapped her smartphone awake, beginning to take notes. “What, controlled substances?”

Bruce glanced deferentially at Jeremiah, as if asking how much to disclose. Jeremiah gave a nod.

“Yes, after a manner of speaking. Something that raised eyebrows among their colleagues.”

“Whoa,” Valerie said, finally looking up from her note-taking, eyes alight. “Think he’s using?”

“What he took, he may not intend for personal use,” Jeremiah said. “Although we might hope.”

“Yikes, theft? Dealing,” Valerie said, taking more notes, “possibly using. Sound about right?”

Bruce took his turn to stare at the desk. Jeremiah took his hand, resuming the narrative, as determined as Bruce not to mention that the colleague in question didn’t so much work in pharmaceuticals as live with someone who did. 

Harley had related her concern. Ivy’s blood proving restorative had implications beyond the purview and control of Wayne Industries.

Bruce lifted his head, as if he’d heard Jeremiah’s thoughts. “Check the closed manifests again.”

“From last night?” Jeremiah asked, bewildered. “The release of those bodies, you mean?”

“It can’t hurt,” Bruce said, careful to make his request sound like banal double-checking.

“Fine,” Jeremiah said, realizing Valerie was watching them both closely. “I’ll pull them.”

“Don’t bother,” said Valerie, wryly. “If anyone’s back from the dead, we’ll hear about it. This is Gotham, after all—” She stopped short, turning discernibly pale. “Mr. Wayne, please forgive me.”

While Bruce wearily rubbed his eyes, Jeremiah gave her a falsely calm, self-deprecating smile.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Jeremiah said, handing her his card. He’d written a figure on the back.

Once they’d buzzed her out, Bruce withdrew the mysterious second folder from beneath the first.

“Do you know what I thought, looking at these?” he asked, handing it over. “Did I ever tell…”

“You might’ve mentioned it,” Jeremiah said grimly. “Story so wild it sounded like a fairytale.”

Bruce shook his head, swiveling his chair toward the sweeping windows behind them. 

“It felt like one, up to and including the place where I was being held against my will.”

Jeremiah flipped through the images. “This chase would have been before the impersonation?”

Bruce turned back to him. “Jim was hunting Indian Hill subjects during Oswald’s run for mayor. If the individual in these photographs is who I think it is, then Jim knew about 514A and did nothing to warn Alfred and me. He was probably afraid of losing face.”

“Oswald’s first term,” Jeremiah sighed, “as opposed to his current reinstatement at our behest.”

“These mean nothing, except more dirt on Jim,” Bruce said. “The subject must be dead by now.”

Jeremiah set the folder aside, brushing Bruce’s cheek. “Without proof, anxiety is understandable.”


	2. Keepers

The world snapped into focus before it offered any sound. Something about the situation was familiar, as were the sights around the space.

Monitors with flashing displays, the numbers on which were discernible. Trays of medical tools, the edges and points of which looked enticing.

Someone coughed, loudly and horribly. That was when sound kicked in, tying it all together.

“Hey, uh…got some questions,” rasped the speaker. “One, where are we? Two—” terrible hacking got in the way of their words “—are we dead?”

What could you say to that? Nothing could explain this, not when maybe they _had_ been dead. The speaker wasn’t that far away, in a parallel bed, and whoever they were, they looked like they’d seen better days. Where had those scars come from?

“Quit starin’,” said the guy—probably a guy—with red hair. “You got a name, princess?”

Princess didn’t sound familiar, but what if it _should_? “I think so. Where’s my chart?”

The guy in the other bed made a confused face, which tugged his scars in fascinating directions.

“D’you mean like…medical chart?” he asked laboriously, as if wading through mental sludge.

It took some effort to crawl to the foot of the bed without dislodging the IV and monitor wires, but the clipboard rattled there.

“This says Five. Not the number, just… _Five_ , written out instead. Do I look like I’m…”

The guy with red hair and scars was laughing, a sluggish, distinctive gurgle. He coughed again.

“You look like a Disney princess,” he said, his voice rough. “I mean, c’mon, that hair of yours.”

Five—because why shouldn’t that be Five’s name, the situation was weird enough—scowled.

“I don’t have anything to pull it back,” Five said defensively, sweeping it behind his neck.

“That wasn’t a criticism, by the way,” said the guy, whose name was probably on his chart, too.

Five struggled out of bed, realizing he could move without much stiffness. Only the IV and the monitor wires were an issue.

“Jerome,” Five read off, glancing up at the guy. “Jerome Valeska. D’you think that’s you?”

“Jeez, I dunno,” Jerome muttered, picking restlessly at the sheets. “Do I look like I am?”

Five shrugged, put the chart back, and got back in his bed. “You look like an asshole.”

Jerome snorted and put a clumsy hand over his mouth, trying to keep a straight face.

“You remind me of somebody I used to know,” he said, sobering quickly. “Dunno who.”

Five experienced a flash of panic, scenes from his subconscious resurfacing like a dream.

“That’s not funny,” he said defensively. “I’m…I’m _me_. Why would you think that?”

“I don’t mean you _act_ like anybody I know, sheesh,” Jerome replied. “It’s how you look, but even then…” He shrugged, wincing.

“Even then what?” Five prompted, not about to let him off the hook. “I want to know why—”

The sound of descending footsteps interrupted Five’s train of thought. So they were still underground; his confusion must have stemmed from the fact that this didn’t look like _any_ of the exam rooms that he’d ever…

Five sucked in his breath, terrified at the next shard of memory. He gestured wildly at Jerome.

“Pretend you’re asleep!” he hissed, skin prickling as the steps drew nearer. “Just— _hurry_!”

Jerome looked like he wanted to ask why, but he immediately slumped and closed his eyes.

Five steeled himself, staring at the ceiling, wondering what they’d done to him this time. The doctor with rose-tinted glasses covered his cruelty with kindness, whereas the woman with dark skin and vibrant clothes was just…neutral.

The blonde woman whose steps slowed as she set eyes on Five was dressed in shades of gray.

“It’s you,” she said in quiet disbelief, advancing the rest of the way. “I can’t believe it worked.”

Five decided pretending he’d just awakened was his best move. “Who…are you? Do I know…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” the woman said, reverently stroking Five’s hair, “of course you do.” She tucked Five’s hair behind his ear. “I’m your mother.”

Five flinched. “Who’s that?” he asked, staring at Jerome, whose pestering he suddenly missed.

The woman took a step back, as if contrite for overstepping Five’s boundaries. “He serves us.”

“He’s sick,” Five shot back, shocked at his own defensiveness. “I don’t want you to hurt him.”

“Who said anything about hurting him?” asked the woman. “He’s so sick he might not even wake up. You always had such a soft heart.”

“Did I?” Five asked uncertainly, torn between his protectiveness toward Jerome and his urge to plunge a medical implement into the woman’s eye.

“When you were small,” she said, looking like she might cry. “And even later on, sometimes, they told me.”

“They,” Five said, focusing on what he recalled about the doctor with glasses and the woman with vibrant clothes. “Why did _they_ have to tell you?”

“They took you from me,” said the woman. “I fought so hard to get you back. For a little while, I did. Do you remember? You were sick, too.”

Five glanced at Jerome again, his heart seized with dread. “Am I sick now? Am I still dying?”

The woman’s hazel-blue eyes lit up as like the fluorescent overheads. “Then you remember.”

Five shook his head slowly, once back and forth. “Only things I don’t understand. Pieces.”

“Let’s try something,” said the woman, stepping close again. “Do you remember your name?”

“No,” Five lied, letting himself wax even more vulnerable. “I see…images, inside my head.”

“Still a visual learner,” the woman said. “Your name is Five, but you don’t have to keep—”

“But I want to,” Five snapped contrarily, narrowing his eyes at her. “It’s mine. What’s yours?”

“My name is Kathryn Monroe,” she replied. “You can call me…whatever you please, Five.”

Five watched the shallow rise and fall of Jerome’s chest, realizing his only hope of improving the situation for both of them was to play along.

“You’re my mother?” Five asked, letting his manner soften again. “What did I call you before?”

“When you were a baby,” Kathryn said, “Mama was what you’d say, until they took you. When I had you back for a while, as a teenager, you called me Ms. Monroe. Gracious, you’re twenty this year.”

“Mother sounds better,” Five said, cringing inwardly. “Do…do you mind? Would that work?”

“Whatever you wish, my darling,” Kathryn said, straightening his pillows. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Five lied, letting himself sink down in his bedclothes. “I’m…tired. Is that normal?”

“After what you’ve been through, yes,” Kathryn soothed, adjusting his covers. “Just rest.”

Five nodded, going half-lidded. “Maybe we can eat when I wake up. Maybe he’ll be okay?”

Kathryn looked at Jerome, _really_ looked at him, for the first time since she’d arrived.

“I do suppose he’s breathing. The monitor shows a pulse. It’s very possible he’ll wake up.”

“Good,” Five murmured, closing his eyes, rolling so his back was to her. “I won’t be alone.”

“Never,” Kathryn agreed, her footsteps retreating, although not fast enough. “Never again.”

Once she was gone, Five sat up in a hurry. “Jerome?” he ventured. “Fuck. That was awful.”

Jerome opened his eyes, agreeing with a grim nod. “Speaking of moms, I think I killed mine.”

Five stared at Jerome’s face, recalling some newsprint. “Maybe. There was a newspaper…”

“If I’ve gotta tell you when I remember who you remind me of,” Jerome said, “then you’ve gotta tell me what you remember.”

Five had fallen back into mulling over his exchange with Kathryn. “She called me sweetheart.”

Jerome made another face that pulled his scars into a lightning-like tracery. It was captivating.

“That doesn’t suit you,” he said in thoughtful disgust. “She called you…what was it, darlin’?”

“She did call me that, but…are you _asking_ me, or calling me that? You say it different.”

Jerome looked sheepish. “Look, I’ll call you whatever you tell me to. Not sweetheart.”

Five made a face, studying him. “What you said before wasn’t…bad? Not a criticism?”

“Nope,” Jerome said, relaxing a little, rolling so he could look directly at Five. “I meant it.”

“Meant it when you called me princess,” Five retorted, hesitantly smiling at him. “Really?”

Jerome grinned until his scars strained. “Did you mean it when you called me an asshole?”

“Ugh,” Five mumbled, hiding his face in one of his pillows. “Sorry, I was just… _no_.”

“Man, I sure was hopin’ you did,” Jerome sighed. “Nicest thing I’ve been called in ages.”

Five turned his face back to Jerome, scooting toward the guard-rail of his bed. He wondered how far he could extend his right hand, the one without the IV, so he stretched his arm beneath the rail.

“Jerome’s a nice name,” Five said, grasping uselessly at the air. “So I’ll call you that. Promise.”

Jerome twitched his hand against the sheets, like he wanted to reach in kind. “You’re precious.”

“You can call me that,” Five said, wondering why he was so willing to permit it. “I don’t mind.”

Jerome looked nervous now. “What if I slip and call you princess again? I’m a real smart-ass.”

“Fine, you can even call me that,” Five said reassuringly. He was exasperated, but also charmed.

Under the light, Jerome’s pensive eyes were a dark, but luminous blue—not like Kathryn’s at all.

“I’m gonna say this now, so you can decide if you wanna cut and run. I did kill my mother.”

Five shrugged at him, grasping at the air again, this time like he meant it. “Help me kill mine?”


	3. Losers

Several days had passed since the meeting with Valerie Vale, and Bruce had grown uneasy.

Thanks to a conversation with Jim and the Coroner, Jerome’s empty casket was no longer at the top of Bruce’s list of concerns. An examination of the casket suggested it hadn’t been occupied for long. Jerome’s body had been held by the Medical Examiner’s office for weeks prior to being released for burial, during which time Jeremiah had hidden the effects of the toxin until the day his plot had been set in motion. 

When that eventful day arrived, Jerome had been in the ground scarcely a week. He’d been dug up in the darkest hours of that morning by Jerome’s cultists, and re-interred by Jim’s team near the end of that same day.

At the Coroner’s estimate, whoever had dug him up a second time had done it within days of the city getting cut off from the mainland. Jim had to admit that made sense, particularly since the earth had remained loose due to repeated disturbances.

Whoever had taken Jerome’s body, they’d concealed the remains so well, for nearly _two years_ at this point, that they might never be found. Jeremiah calmed considerably when all this was laid out for him. His nightmares ceased.

The source of Bruce’s disquiet occupied one of the unassuming manila folders from Valerie, which was open in front of him. He hadn’t given Five much thought in the years since they’d parted ways, and why should he? Five had made it clear he intended to vanish.

Jeremiah peered through the library doors, interrupting Bruce’s ruminations. He went from inquisitive to concerned as he strode to the desk.

“Dear heart,” he said, bringing his hand down on top of the photographs, “you need to let it go.”

Bruce nodded reluctantly, taking Jeremiah’s hand. Jeremiah propped himself between Bruce’s chair and the edge of the desk, an effective blockade.

“I know,” Bruce said, letting Jeremiah pull him to his feet even as Jeremiah sat down on the photographs. “He wasn’t meant to live long.”

“Then our brothers, if you can call them that, are well and truly dead,” Jeremiah said, running his thumbs admiringly along Bruce’s cheekbones. “No matter how close the resemblance was, I doubt he had a patch on you.”

“Aside from Five’s scars, the outward differences were few,” Bruce admitted, resting his head on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Things like…our eye colors weren’t an exact match. Five’s were blue like mine, but had traces of hazel. Variances in bone structure were there, if you knew where to look. This sounds illogical, but...you could see the disparity between Five’s face and mine more clearly when his hair was still long.”

“It sounds like if I’d met him in the street, I would’ve known he wasn’t you,” Jeremiah said, sliding one arm around Bruce’s waist, petting Bruce’s hair with the other. “You said he moved and spoke differently—at least until the Court taught him to mimic you?”

Bruce nodded. “Alfred said there was a kind of…rigidity there, once he was sure he wasn’t imagining things. He only replaced me for about a week.”

Jeremiah kissed Bruce’s temple, and then nuzzled Bruce’s cheek. “Nobody could replace you.”

“I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much to be reminded,” Bruce said. “I’m being childish.”

“I understand your anxiety on this point much better than you think,” replied Jeremiah, wryly.

“Of course,” Bruce murmured, tightening his hold on Jeremiah. “I didn’t mean to imply…”

“Oh, I would have deserved it,” Jeremiah remarked. “I’ve been my fair share of childish.”

When Bruce’s fingertips found the familiar silver chain around Jeremiah’s neck, he tugged at it.

“We were right here,” he said, touching their pendants one at a time, “when you gave me mine.”

“How could I forget?” Jeremiah sighed. “During our long, post-apocalyptic engagement.”

“Our world didn’t end,” Bruce insisted, contemplating the fine-detailed miniature playing cards soldered back to back. He’d never forget the evening Jeremiah had first unveiled them. “It was a breathing space.”

“My dashing Jack,” Jeremiah whispered. “It’s been so long since our last outing, hasn’t it?”

Bruce touched the Joker side of Jeremiah’s pendant and the Jack of Spades side of his own.

“I haven’t forgotten what these mean,” he insisted, clutching them in his first. “Who we are.”

Jeremiah pushed off the desk, backing Bruce against the bookshelf, his breathtaking eyes alight.

“I want you,” he said, low and possessive in Bruce’s ear, “so very much. Will you have me?”

Nodding fervently, Bruce tugged Jeremiah close against him. “Here in the library? Where?”

Jeremiah kissed him deeply, trembling in Bruce’s arms. “Say the word, and I’ll follow.”

Discretion was something they’d never needed to worry about, not within the Manor’s walls. Saturdays and the occasional Sunday warranted discretion if Olga was on duty, but the fact they’d grown into a measure of decorum was laughable.

Bruce slid from between Jeremiah and the bookcase. “Think we should take it upstairs?”

“You forgot to wink,” Jeremiah protested, grinning as Bruce dragged him into the hall.

Nerves weren’t something Bruce had experienced taking Jeremiah to bed in quite some time, although they were a giddy, welcome change. Their earliest months had been spent in a desolate, but idyllic isolation in which the only sure things they had in the world were each other. Two years had filed down their sharp edges, as well as bled the last traces of brutality from their existence.

As Bruce pressed Jeremiah to sit on the edge of the mattress, he realized how much he missed it.

“Will you put on a show for me, Bruce?” Jeremiah asked, almost taunting, unbuttoning his cuffs.

“It wasn’t much of one the night I first came home to you,” Bruce said, “or the time before that.”

Jeremiah stopped what he was doing, waistcoat and shirt hanging, to stare longingly at him.

“You’re no-nonsense,” he sighed, watching Bruce shrug out of his top layers. “It’s adorable.”

“Have you ever said that to my face?” Bruce asked, laughing as he unbuttoned his trousers.

“No,” Jeremiah said sulkily, leaning back until he was propped on his elbows, “but I can do it more often if you like.” He lifted one hand, running it from his exposed collarbone down his pale chest, fingertips drifting from knife-scar to knife-scar. “So—do you?”

“Like?” Bruce asked, tripping out of his bottom layers in his haste to reach the bed. “Maybe.”

Jeremiah flopped on his back, arms flung above his head. “Good, because that’s what you are.”

“Adorable?” Bruce asked, pressing his hand flat against Jeremiah’s warm belly. “What else?”

“Just _darling_ ,” Jeremiah teased, breathless as Bruce slid his hand beneath his waistband.

Bruce leaned low over him, not quite letting their mouths touch as he worked his hand inside Jeremiah’s underwear. He wrapped his fingers around Jeremiah’s cock, but didn’t do anything else, just savoring the heat of it against his palm.

Jeremiah made a soft, frustrated sound. “How is it you’re always naked by now, and I’m not?”

Bruce shrugged, giving him a few taut, leisurely strokes. “You let yourself get too distracted.”

“Unfair,” Jeremiah gasped, unfastening the remainder of his clothes to give Bruce more room.

“Not from where I’m sitting,” Bruce replied, withdrawing his hand to help Jeremiah undress.

They kissed languidly, too preoccupied to re-orient themselves on the mattress or get under the covers. Bruce hadn’t realized how desperate he was for comfort—but Jeremiah, as always, knew what Bruce needed before he could ask.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Jeremiah soothed, running his fingers through Bruce’s hair. “My love.”

“I don’t…call you anything, do I?” Bruce asked, his brow furrowed. “I just realized…”

“How you say my name,” Jeremiah said reverently, nipping Bruce’s neck, “is enough.”

Bruce groaned, unable to think of anything except the way Jeremiah was touching him. He grabbed Jeremiah’s wrist, hastening the downward progress of Jeremiah’s hand. Jeremiah’s indulgent laugh, his warm breath against Bruce’s skin, made Bruce shiver.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce gasped, closing his eyes at the first brush of Jeremiah’s fingertips.

“You got up too early for me to do this,” Jeremiah said, kissing his way down to Bruce’s cock. “I would’ve kept you here all morning.”

Bruce slid his fingers through Jeremiah’s hair, only tightening his grasp when it was too late to give warning. He panted and cursed, hoping Jeremiah liked what he heard even though he was too quiet.

“That was rude of me,” Bruce said, rubbing the back of Jeremiah’s neck, tugging at Jeremiah’s shoulders until Jeremiah crawled up to settle beside him. “I should’ve taken care of you first,” he said right in Jeremiah’s ear.

“Why, because I said I wanted you first?” Jeremiah asked, guiding Bruce’s hand back to where he’d had it a while ago. “That’s…oh, _Bruce_ ,” he sighed, shifting his hips eagerly into the touch, breathing harshly. “That’s nonsense, and you know it.”

“Have you missed the way things were?” Bruce asked, jerking him at a slow, but demanding pace. “Back when we first met, going out like we used to?” He sped up without warning, satisfied when Jeremiah clung to him tightly. “The city’s different now.”

Jeremiah moaned, burying his face in Bruce’s neck when speech proved too taxing. He tensed and came all over Bruce’s hand, nodding desperately into the space between Bruce’s flushed skin and the damp pillow. His heartbeat was frantic.

“More than anything,” Jeremiah said, melting against him, “I’ve missed you in those red gloves.”

“Good,” Bruce said fondly, flexing his hand. “I was thinking we might look after our interests.”


	4. Weepers

Jerome didn’t know what to make of Five’s kindness. It continued even after he woke up one morning, about a week after they’d first spoken, to find Five’s bed empty. The week they’d had to themselves, with the exception of Kathryn’s intrusions, had felt idyllic.

That same evening, Five came back down to where Jerome was still hooked up to the medical equipment. He was accompanied by a man whose ice-pale skin and unusual protective equipment stirred a half-remembered fever dream of being seated at the head of a dining-room table. Jerome didn’t even get the chance to wonder _why_.

“Kathryn asked me to bring Dr. Fries down to see you,” Five said, stepping close to Jerome’s bed. He slid his hand beneath the guard rail when Jerome tensed. “I thought maybe you’d want…” He glanced at Dr. Fries, whose back was turned while he stared at Jerome’s monitor and scrawled on Jerome’s chart. “Would it help if I held your hand?”

Jerome had no idea why that would make any difference, but Five looked like he’d be crushed if Jerome refused. He was surprised at how well Five cleaned up. His hair was pulled back, and he was wearing an ugly cream cable-knit sweater with a tight-fitting pair of black jeans that looked good on him. So did the dark red boots with yellow stitching.

“Can’t hurt,” Jerome said, grasping Five’s hand before Five could withdraw it in embarrassment.

Five glanced down as he laced his fingers with Jerome’s, running his thumb over the back of Jerome’s hand.

“You’re warm,” Five told him while Dr. Fries passed a contactless thermometer from Jerome’s forehead down to the pulse-point beneath his ear.

“Thirty-seven degrees Celsius,” said Dr. Fries, scrawling on Jerome’s chart. “Normal for most.”

Jerome tilted his head at the doctor, studying the man’s profile under his…bubble-thing. It looked like an extreme version of the face shields Jerome had seen on some of the nurses in…

“Hey, Doc, can you tell me where I was before this?” Jerome asked. “Hospital or somewhere?”

Five bit his lip. Either he didn’t like what Dr. Fries was doing, or he knew something Jerome didn’t.

Dr. Fries shrugged, preparing a syringe with perfunctory efficiency. “Arkham, I’m assuming.”

Five snapped his head up at the sight of the syringe, narrowing his eyes. “What is that for?”

“Blood test,” Fries said. “Because he hasn’t had an IV in over a week, I need to draw it this way.”

Jerome silently repeated the word to himself. _Arkham, Arkham, Arkham—Arkham Asylum?_

Five tapped the back of Jerome’s hand, drawing his attention away from his inner monologue.

“Are you okay with that?” he prompted, pointing the syringe out to Jerome. “He’ll stick you.”

Jerome found Fries’s frown comical. “Can’t hurt any more than what happened to my face.”

Five stared anxiously at Jerome. “Are you asking what happened to it, or do you remember?”

Fries just turned Jerome’s other arm upside-down, prodding around for a vein. “He has amnesia.”

“So what?” Five challenged, so prickly it was admirable. “I’d still have it if Kathryn hadn’t…”

Jerome shot Five a hurt look, but didn’t say, _We’ve gotta talk once this guy’s gone_. What he said instead was, “You’re not callin’ her Mother?”

Five scowled at Jerome. “To her face, sure. Think I’m happy about it?” He watched Fries sink the needle in Jerome’s arm. “You’re not to say a word.”

Fries drew Jerome’s blood in one long, steady pull of the syringe. He removed the vial and inserted another, not stopping until he’d drawn three.

“Why would I?” Fries asked, shrugging blandly. “I do only what Ms. Monroe pays me to do.”

Jerome joined Five in scowling at the doctor. “She doesn’t pay you to report the shit I say?”

“You don’t really say anything,” Fries said, taping a piece of gauze over Jerome’s arm. “Do you?”

Exchanging wary glances with Five, Jerome shook his head. “I guess I don’t. Why would I?”

Fries packed up his equipment. “You can’t talk about what you don’t remember.” He turned, and then said, “Thanks for brunch that one time.”

Jerome opened his mouth and closed it again, but Fries was already gone. “Five, d’you…”

“Know what he meant by that? No,” Five said, releasing Jerome’s hand so he could take hold of Jerome’s other arm. He covered the gauze with his palm, pressing down hard. “So it stops bleeding.”

Jerome studied Five’s features. Now that his hair was out of his face, he could see a faint scar on Five’s forehead. He could also see the faint suggestion of one down the back of Five’s neck.

“Not to be a buzzkill,” Jerome said, “but are you gonna share whatever it is Kathryn told you?”

“Yes,” Five said, releasing Jerome’s arm. He fumbled with something on the side of the bed Jerome couldn’t see, and then folded down the guard rail so he could sit on the edge of Jerome’s mattress. “I couldn’t do that while Dr. Fries was here.”

Jerome took Five’s hand in both of his own, realizing he hadn’t shown Five proper appreciation.

“Hey, princess, I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re gonna have to be patient with me. I’m startin’ to get…what was it you said about bein’ able to picture stuff in your mind? Shit that I don’t know whether to think…is it dreams? Memories?”

Five nodded, his expression softening. “I didn’t know what to think of what I saw in my head until Kathryn filled me in today. It was…a lot to get a handle on. Too much.” He tilted his head. “Why do you think Fries thanked you for brunch?”

“Seems like I actually _did_ have him over for a meal at some point,” Jerome sighed, “because I have this…weird impression I did.”

Five nodded. “Kathryn telling me about where I was—at Indian Hill, under Arkham Asylum, with Dr. Strange and Mrs. Peabody—felt like that.”

“Arkham,” Jerome echoed. “Fries said I was there. Do you think this Strange fucked with me, too? Are Indian Hill and Arkham the same thing?”

Five swallowed hard. “Hugo Strange was in charge of Arkham Asylum, but he was running Indian Hill in secret. You could get to it using Arkham’s underground tunnels. You weren’t just at Arkham for a while, after killing your mom, until Theo Galavan and his sister broke you out. You were killed by Galavan, on live TV, after working for him a while. Strange froze you at Indian Hill, and then _he_ got…fired or something.” He paused, squeezing his eyes shut, as if talking for an extended period of time was difficult. “We were there at the same time. I escaped with Ms. Mooney. Your body was sent to a warehouse, and then people loyal to your cause broke in, stole your body, unthawed you, _and_ —”

Jerome set his fingers on Five’s lips. Everything was filtering back to him with terrible clarity.

“Precious, _shhh_ ,” Jerome said, realizing Five was near tears. “Would it help if, uh…” He closed his eyes, cringing, and held out his arms.

Five latched onto Jerome, drawing his legs up on the bed. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I remember the night you tried to kill Bruce Wayne at the Boardwalk Circus, because I was _here_. Kathryn was training me to impersonate Bruce.”

Jerome was having difficulty processing anything Five had said after _Bruce Wayne_ , because— _shit_. The last handful of unpleasant pieces fell into place. No wonder Kathryn had decided Five was the perfect undercover agent, and— _right_.

No wonder Five had been upset when Jerome had told him he reminded him of someone he used to know. Even with the same level of partial amnesia, he still had the sense people were always expecting him to be someone else.

“Princess,” Jerome said, tipping Five’s chin up with his fingers, “I don’t care about any of that.”

Five sniffled loudly, sitting up in surprise. “You don’t care that I look like someone you hate?”

“You must hate him, too,” Jerome said. “Hell, I look like someone _I_ hate. Did Kathryn tell you about my brother?”

Five nodded slowly. “You don’t know what happened after you died the second time, do you?” 

“I know Bruce and my bro were probably gonna get buddy-buddy thanks to me,” Jerome said.

Five sucked in his breath, as if realizing how close they still sat. He scooted back a few inches.

“It’s really complicated, but…after fucking up the city, they helped fix it again and got married.”

Jerome flopped back against his pillows, staring at the concrete ceiling. “Nobody offed ’em?”

Five shook his head miserably, drawing Jerome’s gaze back to his face. “It’s not fair, is it.”

“C’mere, precious,” Jerome said. “Let’s talk about happier stuff before you tell me your whole sob story. That’s gonna be way more interesting.”

“Happier stuff?” Five echoed, resting his head on Jerome’s shoulder. “It’s all a disaster for us.”

“Sure,” Jerome said, tightening his arm around Five. “What did you do the night I was reborn?”

“The first time you were reborn?” Five asked. “When I was staying here, training to…you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Jerome said. “I’ll tell you how much fun it was to mess with Brucie, but I wanna know—”

“I watched the fires from my window,” Five whispered. “Dozens of them, all across the city. I was—” he stifled a laugh “—hypnotized.”

“Glad I gave you somethin’ to look at,” Jerome said, closing his eyes before Five could notice what they might betray. “Tell me a story.”


	5. Dreamers

The next morning at breakfast, Five found it difficult to meet Kathryn’s eyes while her silent, obedient Talons served them. He’d lingered with Jerome for nearly two hours after Dr. Fries had departed the evening before. They’d talked until Jerome was worn out, and then Five had crept back upstairs to find the townhouse’s residential level dark—which meant Kathryn had retired to her study, or turned in for the night.

Five had gone to bed, but sleep hadn’t come easily. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how it felt to sit that close to Jerome. They’d asked each other questions until they were sure they remembered as much as they could.

 _He serves us_ , wasn’t that what Kathryn had said about Jerome? None of Jerome’s recovered memories corroborated that, and neither did Five’s.

“You’re quiet this morning, sweetheart,” Kathryn said, passing Five the sugar for his Earl Grey.

Five shrugged, taking a moment to adjust tighten the belt of his floral kimono-style robe. Kathryn had let him pick a handful of new articles of clothing—like the jeans, Dr. Martens, and several pairs of black leggings—but the rest of what he was stuck wearing was left over from when he’d been training to impersonate Bruce. He missed what he’d been allowed to wear at the Foxglove.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Five replied, finally taking the sugar bowl from her. “I didn’t sleep well.”

Kathryn pressed her lips together in a thin line as she stirred half-and-half into her fancy coffee.

“I can’t imagine you would have, not after spending so much time with our…recovering guest.”

Five stirred his tea, feigning innocence as he stared at her. “I thought he was like the Talons?”

“Why would you say that, now that you know who he is?” Kathryn asked. “We’ve been over it.”

“You said when I first woke up that he serves us,” Five replied. “Why would you say _that_?”

“Because, assuming he recovers enough to be useful,” Kathryn said, “he will be doing just that.” She cut off a sliver of her crêpe and ate it. “Did you learn anything? How is Jerome’s memory faring? Victor tells me he doubts it’ll return, which bodes well for us. He told me you kindly offered to stay downstairs and talk to that poor wretch for a while, since he seems to trust you.”

Five took a long swig of his tea, realizing that Fries had, unprompted, decided to cover for him.

“Jerome does trust me,” he said, “but I didn’t find out anything useful. I really wanted to, because…I want to make you proud.”

“Oh, darling, but you do,” Kathryn said fondly, reaching across the table for Five’s free hand. “I can’t tell you how much it means that you’re trying.”

Five found it difficult not to pull his hand away, but he endured the contact until she ended it.

“I’ll keep trying,” he said resolutely, remembering the demeanor and tone of voice that Kathryn had praised during his training. “With your permission, of course. I’d like to keep visiting Jerome even when Victor isn’t here to check on him.” 

Kathryn nodded. “If he gets well enough to be moved up here with us, would it disturb you to have him nearby? The room next to yours is empty.”

Five bit his lip. It wasn’t in his or Jerome’s best interest to let her know the thought pleased him.

“Not too much,” he said. “He’s unsettling, I guess, but…he talks to me. I won’t let you down.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Kathryn reassured him. “Is there anything you’d like to do today?”

“Is there anything left in the kitchen?” Five asked earnestly. “I’ll take it down to him. He was complaining about the Talons never bringing him anything decent. If I’m the one to bring him something _good_ , then I’ll stay in his favor.”

“You’re just as devious as I remember,” Kathryn said with a delighted laugh, reaching for that morning’s _Gotham Gazette_. “Play cat and mouse all you like,” she said, her smile fading as she scanned the front page.

“Is everything all right?” Five asked, finishing what was left on his plate. He stood, teacup in hand, eager to get back downstairs.

“Possible sighting of some...troublemakers who ran rampant back when Gotham was cut off,” Kathryn sighed. “Leave the worrying to me.”

“If you’re sure,” Five said, realizing she was reading again. He walked to his room as swiftly as he could without spilling tea, gulping it all the way.

In front of his full-length mirror, Five brushed his hair and stuck an elastic around his wrist. He studied his reflection, pulling his hair forward over one shoulder. Getting it to reach the length he preferred had never been arduous, as it grew unnaturally fast.

 _Princess_. Five thought about Jerome’s endearment and flushed. He decided against changing out of his kimono and leggings, but put on socks.

By the time Five reached the kitchen, Kathryn’s Talons were engaged in mechanical clean-up.

“You,” Five said, imitating the tone he’d heard Kathryn use, rapt when they stopped to regard him attentively. “Prepare a tray with the leftovers.”

The Talons did as Five asked. Troubling, to realize he could command them as readily as Kathryn, but he was a survivor above all else.

Jerome was still asleep when Five arrived with the tray, clutching one of his scratchy pillows.

Five set Jerome’s breakfast on the bed that had once been his, and then picked up the tea he’d prepared while the Talons had seen to the rest. He went to Jerome’s side, worried when Jerome didn’t stir. Touching Jerome’s cheek resulted in Jerome’s eyes flying open instantly.

Jerome let go of the pillow, sitting up against the bed’s raised back. He stared wonderingly at Five, accepting the mug when Five offered it.

“G’morning, princess,” Jerome said, staring. “Must’ve died again. Got sent to the wrong place.”

Five felt his cheeks heat like they had while he’d been staring in his mirror. He turned and fetched the plate with two sugar-and-butter crêpes, pleased that the Talons hadn’t skimped on the scattering of fresh berries and dusting of powdered sugar.

Jerome gulped the tea and made a face. “D’you like this stuff? I don’t think I have in _any_ life.”

Five nodded. “I didn’t make the food myself,” he said, trading Jerome a fork for his empty mug, handing him the plate. “I hope it’s not cold.”

“Nah, precious, this is heaven,” Jerome said, winking, already a couple of bites in. “Tea was nice and hot, though. Betcha took care of that part.”

Five nodded again, watching Jerome scoot over. As soon as Five took a seat, Jerome skewered a few blueberries and held them up to Five’s lips.

“Anyone else would treat this as a dangerous proposition,” Jerome said, fascinated as Five ate the berries without hesitation, “lettin’ a guy like me put somethin’ sharp this close to their face.”

“Who cares? I’m not like anyone else,” Five replied, his mouth still half full. “Neither are you.”

Jerome laughed at that, not just one of the stifled cackles Five had heard while they were recovering. Five laughed with him.

“You’re all right, princess, you know that?” Jerome said at length. “Dunno what I’d do without you. Probably go nuts all over again.”

“Weren’t we always, though?” Five asked, watching Jerome finish the crêpe. “Nuts, I mean?”

Jerome grinned wider than Five had ever seen. He fed Five the last few sugar-covered berries.

“Never a truer word spoken,” he said, setting the empty plate aside on the tray that had once held sharp medical implements, putting an arm around Five’s shoulders. “Uh, so, is this—”

“It’s fine,” Five insisted, curling close as his heart raced, resting his head on Jerome’s shoulder.

“And if…if this is rude, just slap me,” Jerome went on hesitantly, “but…can I touch your hair?”

Five closed his eyes, nodding eagerly as Jerome threaded shockingly careful fingers through it.

“Used to pin Mom’s hair up before her shows,” Jerome said. “Even braided it sometimes. I hated doin’ what she coulda asked any one of the Grayson girls to do, but I wasn’t half bad at it.”

“You can braid mine,” Five said before he thought better of it. He pulled the elastic off his wrist.

“How about,” Jerome said, “you bring me breakfast every day, and I do your hair in exchange.”

Five pressed his mouth against the thin cotton of Jerome’s top. It was more like scrubs than a gown, what Fries had Jerome wearing. He’d done everything in his power to keep Jerome clean and well treated. He’d done the same for Five the week he’d been confined to bed rest.

“Deal,” Five whispered, his pulse ratcheting up another notch when Jerome hugged him closer.

“What’s the old lady think of you comin’ to see me like this?” Jerome asked, taking the elastic.

“She thinks I’m spying for her,” Five said spitefully, turning sideways at Jerome’s urging. “I’ve been telling her your memory’s not back. Fries has been telling her that, too.” He sighed as Jerome settled behind him and started combing his fingers through his hair. “If you have no memory, she won’t brainwash you like the Talons. I suspect that’s her plan—using you to serve us, whether you stay blank, or she has to _make_ you blank.”

“Why the hell are you lookin’ out for me?” Jerome asked quietly, his touch achingly gentle.

Five swallowed, closing his eyes as Jerome worked. “Because we’ve both been hurt enough.”


	6. Seekers

Jerome was simultaneously relieved and disappointed that Kathryn and her Talons weren’t getting directly involved in Operation Move the Monster Upstairs. Relieved, in that it meant he was at the mercy of Fries and Five with no creepy judgment or appraisal—not that he couldn’t have dished to Kathryn as good as he might’ve gotten. Disappointed, in that he wouldn’t have the chance to size them up now he was on his feet.

Movement came stiffly to Jerome, and his muscles were still weak. Fries seemed concerned about the level of atrophy, suggesting that Five should keep the two of them moving as much as possible. As endearingly prickly as ever, Five had pointed out how tricky that would be given they weren’t allowed outside. Fries had countered with, _Look, there are how many levels to this place, from basement to rooftop? Get creative._

The room next to Five’s was outfitted as blandly, in dark wood paneling and damask furniture, as any other room they passed through. Five’s room and Jerome’s room each had a queen bed. Even while Jerome had been living with the Galavans, he and the Maniax had only been given twin mattresses—with the exception of Barbara Kean, who had found her way into Tabitha’s bed instantly.

Jerome could recognize, in retrospect and with profound disgust, that Theo had tried his damnedest to accomplish the same with Jerome. Back then, Jerome had found it mystifying, how Tabitha was always quick to disrupt Jerome’s extended one-on-one interactions with Theo—at least until she’d threatened Theo with unspecified bodily harm over which of them was going to accompany Jerome to kill Cicero. Tabitha had won.

Once the few pieces of medical equipment Fries would need to periodically examine Jerome were installed in Jerome’s room, he asked Jerome and Five to watch their backs and said he needed to get going. Fries had thus far provided allyship that reminded Jerome strongly of Tabitha’s, and Jerome wanted to get to the bottom of it. Honor among thieves was suspect.

With Tabitha, it had been simple—her loathing for her brother and her innate sympathy for the young and cast off had created a perfect storm. She couldn’t save Jerome in the end, not having known Theo’s plan to kill Jerome on the air. _Nobody_ had known about it.

Five watched Jerome intently as Fries prepared to leave. He tilted his head encouragingly.

Jerome cleared his throat, delaying Fries on his way out the door. “Princess here is too shy to say thanks, so I’m gonna say it for both of us. In fact…” He rose from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the queen bed next to Five, offering Fries his hand. “We owe ya, Iceman.”

“Fries will suffice,” Fries sighed, shaking Jerome’s hand. “Freeze if you must. Anything but that.”

“Dr. Fries?” Five ventured, staying where he was. “Jerome wants to— _we_ want to know—why you’ve done so much to protect us. You didn’t have to.”

Fries looked uncomfortable, like he didn’t know how to respond to an inquiry regarding his behaviors not tied solely to logic. He finally sighed, flipping back his bubble-like helmet, and set his work bag on the dresser. He rummaged in it, pulling up a pair of manila folders.

“I’m grateful for what techniques I’ve been able to perfect in working with the two of you, and that both of you proved not just repairable, but revivable,” Fries said, handing the folders to Five. “There’s a lot Ms. Monroe’s hiding from the two of you, things you might not remember even though you’ve been helping each other recover your memories.” Fries looked at Jerome. “There’s not much in your file you don’t already know about yourself, except the full clinical rundown of having died and been revived twice. You, though—” he shifted his gaze to Five “—know Ms. Monroe is your mother, and must suspect that Wayne DNA was involved in your engineering. But there’s a lot more to it than that.”

Jerome stared at the folder in his grasp, feeling curiously indifferent, but he noticed Five’s hands were shaking as he stared at his own. Jerome set his folder on the bed, and then put an arm around Five’s shoulders. Five turned inward and clung to him, his folder crushed between their chests.

“Will these tell us how the hell you transferred two human-sized ice pops from your post-apocalyptic hideout to Brucie’s fancy lab?” Jerome asked. “That’s the only other thing I wanna know, aside from _why_ , which you pretty much covered as sappily as possible.”

Fries shrugged, re-zipping his bag. “Falsified the documents surrounding who was in the pods. It was easy for me to tell them my first couple clients had been taken on while the city was cut off. There were a lot of casualties, as I’m sure you’re aware. Your brother should have taken more care to examine the pods’ contents, but he’s gone soft since marrying Mr. Wayne.”

Jerome cackled, which made Five relax in his embrace. “Figures. He’s on a real tight leash.”

Fries shouldered his bag and started for the door. “You would be surprised at the level of decision-making autonomy Mr. Wayne permits your brother within the company.”

“I don’t want to talk about Bruce!” Five snapped, startling Jerome and Fries. “Please leave!”

Rocking Five in his arms, Jerome opened his mouth to offer a parting shot of his own, but Fries had already slipped out. For a tall dude in a weird, futuristic suit, he moved quietly.

“I wish,” Five hiccupped, and that was when Jerome realized he was crying, “I wish, I _wish_ —”

“You wish what, precious?” Jerome asked, appalled at himself for how easily, how _instinctively_ , he proceeded to kiss Five’s loose, lovely hair. “I wanna, uh, make it come true.”

Five gasped and went still, and his folder fell to the floor between them. “I don’t really know.”

“You’re allowed to say you wish every rando in Gotham would quit comparin’ you to Bruce.”

Five actually laughed at that. “I guess…yeah, I do wish that. I know Fries meant well, but…”

“Gotcha,” Jerome said, pressing his mouth against Five’s ear. “Think we should kill him, too?”

“No,” Five said adamantly. “I appreciate the thought. It’s sweet, but…he’s been kind to us.”

 _Sweet_. Jerome couldn’t process that he’d just been called something he hadn’t been called since he was six. His ears rang with it, and his chest tightened. If anyone in the room fit that description, it was Five.

“Hey, would it help if we looked at what’s in your file?” he asked. “Quick, like a band-aid?”

Five nodded slowly, pulling back so he could look Jerome in the eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.

Jerome closed the bedroom door and locked it while Five fetched the folder from the floor.

“C’mere,” Jerome said, heading back over to the bed, and Five joined him without hesitation.

Having the file open in their laps as they flipped through charts, scans, and other arcane diagnostics felt like reading some kind of macabre bedtime story. When they hit something about genetic make-up that Jerome didn’t fully understand, Five stared at the lab report for about a full minute before shoving the file’s contents to the floor and crawling away from Jerome, fully onto the mattress, as fast as he could.

“You need to get away from me,” Five said, flopping down miserably with his back to Jerome.

“Why the hell would I do that?” Jerome asked, scrambling after him, setting a hand on Five’s arm.

“Everything about me should freak you out,” Five seethed. “ _Everything_. Did you understand what was on that paper? If you did, you wouldn’t be…”

“Wouldn’t be this close to you?” Jerome asked. He swallowed hard, tugging insistently at Five’s bicep until Five rolled to face him. “Why?”

Five closed his eyes, scooting closer, which felt more intimate now they were lying on their sides facing each other. His breath warmed Jerome’s lips, and his hand crept to Jerome’s chest, as if seeking…connection, or perhaps validation.

“I was supposed to be test-tube twins. Fraternal ones, like…made from a tampered-with combination of the Waynes’ DNA and Kathryn’s. That’s the first thing that should bother you.”

Jerome shrugged, sliding his arm around Five’s waist, deciding the risk was worth it. “So?”

Five drew a shaky breath, his palm over Jerome’s racing heart. “The eggs fused.”

“They maybe mentioned that kinda thing homeschoolin’ us on the road,” Jerome remarked nonchalantly, although he harbored a degree of amazement. “Those, whatsits, Punnett squares. Probabilities with…chromosomes and shit?”

Five bit his lip, looking slightly relieved. “My chromosomes are wrong. XX/XY instead of just XX, or just XY. Maybe it explains why I’m not…” He took a deep breath. “Why I don’t feel like a guy _or_ a girl, but like…maybe both. Or neither.”

Jerome could instantly focus that information through a less-than-ideal lens, although maybe it would help Five to know that some so-called biological monsters had always been able to find a place in the world as natural wonders. Maybe he’d explain that part of circus life later.

“Do you see me complaining, princess?” he asked instead, rubbing the small of Five’s back. 

“About…” Five knit his eyebrows, searching Jerome’s face as his features shifted to a defiant, breathtakingly beautiful expression that said _fuck it_. “About somebody who’s not normal being attracted to you?”

Jerome felt the entire room tilt, but he knew it was just the dizzy, giddy racing of his pulse. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got a thing for…” He took his turn to close his eyes, abashed. “Listen, it’s just icing that you’re hot, if that’s okay to say? That’s not why I started to feel like maybe—”

Five crushed their mouths together before Jerome could even react, stifling a yearning sound at the back of his throat. He pressed one hand to the back of Jerome’s head, fingers flexing, sighing as he parted his lips.

Jerome had pretty much zero practice with this kind of thing, but he pulled Five tight against himself. Following Five’s tentative example made things easier, because Five was _definitely_ leading. When Five licked into Jerome’s mouth, Jerome felt his hips jolt against Five’s. He usually lacked this kind of reaction, at least from what he could remember, and had always made a show of claiming the contrary.

“If you want us to stop kissing,” Five rasped, panting against Jerome’s scars, “say so.”

Jerome grinned, nerves melting as he stroked Five’s flushed cheek. “Not on your life.”


	7. Givers

Throughout breakfast with Kathryn the next morning, Five couldn’t prevent himself from replaying what had happened the evening before. He and Jerome had traded kisses for what had felt like ages. In actuality, it had only been for about twenty minutes.

Five had mumbled his apologies, claiming he was tired, and gone to his own room. He’d spent a while panting Jerome’s name into his pile of pillows, stifling a cry when he finally came in his own trembling hand. Getting off had never felt so miserable.

It was difficult to decide which of two circumstances was the most depressing. One, Jerome hadn’t noticed the state Five was in thanks to Five’s relative physiological difference. Two, Jerome hadn’t gotten hard even though he’d seemed into the kissing.

Five realized, staring into his oatmeal and ignoring Kathryn’s attempts at conversation, that there was a third circumstance. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling like he’d felt the night before, let alone how he’d felt toward Jerome in the days leading up to his reckless admission.

Heaven knew Five hadn’t lacked opportunity working at the Foxglove, because there had been an overwhelming number of attractive people. Most of them had been Five’s co-workers. He’d even had something resembling a crush on several of them. Still, he’d never experienced such a viscerally physical reaction as a result of interacting with them. He’d only ever found looking at them aesthetically pleasing.

Five was also having a difficult time acknowledging that the previous night wasn’t the first time he’d fantasized about Jerome. He’d awakened on several previous mornings from dreams whose specific contents he couldn’t recall, but the _gist_ of them had been obvious.

“Five!” Kathryn scolded, shattering his troubled reverie. “Have you even heard a single word—”

“No, I don’t want to read the news,” Five said, glancing up at her. “And no, Jerome’s memory isn’t back. That’s what you wanted to know, right?”

Kathryn studied him for several minutes, and then said, “You’re not to see him until tonight. You’ve spent too much time surveilling a lost cause.”

Five knew that arguing would only hurt his chances of being left to his own devices come evening—which would make visiting Jerome in his room, kept locked from the outside, impossible. It was a miracle Kathryn trusted him with access to the key.

Acquiescence to Kathryn’s request got Five a long, dull day that wasn’t without utility. His chess game had improved since he’d played Alfred Pennyworth as part of imitating Bruce. Kathryn’s insistence on teaching him Court history, policies, and procedures might yet come in handy going toe to toe with her. He endured the lessons for Jerome’s sake, biding his time.

That evening, once they’d eaten, Kathryn told Five to take Jerome his dinner. She informed Five that she’d only permit another week of this before Jerome’s _conditioning_ would begin—and that Five would be assisting her in the endeavor.

Jerome was concerned when Five, sullenly tearful, let himself into Jerome’s room with the tray.

“You’ve gotta tell me what this is about,” he said, waiting until Five had set the tray between them on the mattress, “so I can help. What’d she do?”

“It’s what she’s going to do,” Five said furiously, handing Jerome one of the buttered rolls. “She says I have one more week to keep talking to you before she makes _me_ help her train you to…” He shuddered. “She must know I’ve been lying about your amnesia.”

“Welp,” Jerome said, chewing on his roll, tilting Five’s chin up, “we had better finish the plan.”

Five nodded resolutely, wiping his eyes as he watched Jerome eat. He was exhausted to the point of not even knowing what he ought to hope for, as far as their current encounter was concerned. Doing what they’d done the night before might be too dangerous to risk again, but he couldn’t help obsessing over it like he had at breakfast. He wanted Jerome too much.

Five didn’t even realize he’d blotted out Jerome’s attempts at further conversation until Jerome set the empty tray on the floor. He stared as Jerome turned down the covers, sat back down on the mattress, and held out his arms.

“To hell with every other sensible reason we’ve got,” Jerome said, relieved as Five crawled to him. “I’m gonna kill her for makin’ you feel like this.”

Five yawned, grateful Jerome basically lived in pajamas. He was also grateful Kathryn had tolerated him wearing his kimono and leggings all day.

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” Five asked timidly. He stripped out of his leggings, dropped them on the floor, and lay down beside Jerome.

Jerome froze, but he tightened his arms around Five. “I might snore. Are you willing to risk it?”

“Might?” Five scoffed, cuddling closer. “You snored the whole time we were in the basement.”

Jerome pecked Five’s cheek, spooning Five comfortably. “Rude. Get some rest, princess.”

Five was glad Kathryn never checked on him if his bedroom door was shut, which was exactly how he'd left it. He’d also locked Jerome’s door behind him on entry, and the only key was currently in his kimono pocket.

“Okay,” Five yawned, closing his eyes, lulled by Jerome’s embrace. “Lemme know if I…”

What Five had meant to say in the midst of drifting off, he couldn’t remember. As he blinked muzzily at the dimmed bedside lamp, he felt the slow, even rise and fall of Jerome’s chest against his back. That meant Jerome had fallen asleep at some point, too.

Just perceiving where he was, warm and safe, made Five shiver with longing. He couldn’t extract himself from Jerome’s embrace without ruining the moment, but the shame he felt, finding himself in the same condition as the night before, demanded action.

Five angled his hips toward the mattress, attempting to roll away. All that accomplished was rubbing against his kimono. He winced.

Jerome cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, can I...help with that?” he asked, sounding guiltily apologetic.

Five closed his eyes in shame, breathing hard into the pillow. He hated his lack of self-control. Jerome’s arm around his waist was almost intolerable now, knowing Jerome could touch him if he wanted. And he desperately wanted Jerome to want him.

“Only if you really want to,” Five whispered, his heart hammering as Jerome nuzzled his hair. “I’m...not like you. Too small.”

Jerome cleared his throat, rubbing his fingers soothingly against Five’s chest. “Who cares? The real question’s if _you_ want me to, princess.”

Five felt the tension in him dissipate, such a relief it brought tears to his eyes. He hiccupped into the pillow, nodding.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Jerome murmured, sliding his trembling hand down to cup Five through his kimono. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Put your hand under...” Five took a shaky breath as Jerome rubbed him gently. “On my skin, I mean. Please _touch_...”

“You have no idea how bad I wanna,” Jerome said, low and rough. He slipped his fingers under the silk, finding Five’s cock in no time at all.

Five moaned and squirmed, pushing helplessly into Jerome’s fist. “Jerome,” he whimpered, “Jerome, I’m gonna...”

“Five,” Jerome whispered, not completing the thought as he pumped faster, in time with how Five was moving his hips. “C’mon, sweet pea.”

Something about the endearment, which Five had never heard Jerome use for him before, flooded Five’s belly with warmth. This was different from when he’d touched himself, thinking of Jerome’s handsome face, his gorgeous smile.

“Fuck, _Jerome_!” Five whimpered. He panted and shuddered, coming in Jerome’s grasp.

Jerome held Five until it was over, breathing fast, combing his fingers through Five’s hair.

“You doin’ okay, princess? From what I remember, it’s, uh…that doesn’t always feel…”

Five turned around in Jerome’s embrace, kissing Jerome on the mouth. “Feels really good.”

Jerome swallowed, shifting his hips against Five’s like he was ashamed he was hard now, too.

“Can I…” Five felt foolish trying to ask, but he knew it mattered. “Do you want me to try…?”

Jerome released a shaky breath, dragging Five’s hand from his back around to his abdomen.

Five ran his fingers carefully over the damp front of Jerome’s pajamas, his pulse racing again.

“Like this?” He met Jerome’s gaze, rubbing his palm where Jerome seemed most sensitive.

Jerome made one of those hitched sounds, low in his throat, that made Five’s heart clench.

“Not sure how, but…” He panted harshly, pressing into Five’s palm. “Fuck, _precious_. S’good.”

Five kissed Jerome. He unbuttoned Jerome’s pajamas with care, sliding his hand inside.

“You can come whenever,” he whispered, nipping Jerome’s lower lip. “I don’t mind.”

“Five, _wait_ ,” Jerome gasped, tugging at Five’s kimono, “I wanna feel you, I wanna…”

Five pulled his hand out of Jerome’s underwear, hating the fact it meant not touching him for even a minute. He shrugged out of his kimono, and then helped Jerome with his pajama shirt and bottom layers.

“Like this?” Five asked, pushing Jerome down on his back, shifting to straddle Jerome’s hips.

Jerome ran his hands slowly up Five’s thighs, worshipful. “Any way you want me, darlin’.”

Five flushed, running his hands over Jerome’s chest, realizing he was close to turned-on again. The scars on Jerome’s abdomen seemed more methodical than the ones on his face, like they’d had some kind of clinical purpose.

“I hate them for this,” Five whispered, canting his hips, lowering himself until their bellies and everything else touched. “For hurting you.”

Jerome groaned, closing his eyes, clutching Five against himself. “Nah, I was…already…”

“I don’t care if you were already dead,” Five went on, nuzzling Jerome’s neck. “I’m still mad.”

“That’s…you’re so fuckin’ sexy, I can’t…” Jerome forced his eyes open, staring up at him.

“You are, too,” Five said, grinding down against him now, determined to get them both off.

“Easy,” Jerome murmured, running his thumb along Five’s lower lip, rocking up against him, achingly slow. “Oh, yeah. S’nice, precious. _Real_ nice.”

“Yeah,” Five panted, tensing his thighs on either side of Jerome’s hips, “just…fuck, _fuck_!”

Jerome tightened his hold on Five so dramatically that he didn’t realize, hazy-headed with his second orgasm, that Jerome was coming, too. He felt wet heat, more of a mess than he’d ever made on his own, and kissed Jerome’s cry back into his mouth.

“Did that feel okay?” Five asked after a little while, petting Jerome’s hair while he recovered.

Jerome just nodded, hiding his face in the crook of Five’s neck. He kissed the spot over and over—each firm, deliberate press of his lips suffused with a reverence conveying what he couldn’t articulate. He sucked in his breath.

“I don’t care if you feel it back or not,” Five said softly in Jerome’s ear, “but…love you.”

Jerome made a sound that was close to what it was like when somebody started to cry.

“Thought I could just forget what that was like,” he said brokenly. “Turns out…nope.”

“What, caring about somebody?” Five asked, propping his chin on Jerome’s shoulder.

“Loving somebody to the point that you’d do…jeez,” Jerome sighed. “Anything.”

“I’ve cared about someone before, maybe,” Five said. “I haven’t ever loved anyone.”

“Then how d’you know that’s what this is, precious?” Jerome asked. “On your end?”

“You just said loving somebody means you’d do anything for them,” Five insisted.

“Yeah,” Jerome said, playing with Five’s hair. “Is that really what you’re sayin’?”

Five nodded, tracing the scars from Jerome’s chin to his temple. “Is it too much?”

“Well, _no_ ,” Jerome replied, almost in relieved tears. “I just said I felt the same.”

Five kissed him. “I’m not going to leave you. Everyone else in your life was wrong.”

Jerome was just looking at him again, searching Five’s eyes for any signs of doubt.

“I believe you,” he said, playing with Five’s hair. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, either.”

Five yawned, sleepily settling down against Jerome. “So, how should we kill her?”


	8. Takers

The night had a strange energy to it. Jeremiah was dressed in clothes he hadn’t worn in ages—and Bruce was at his side, black-clad and red-gloved. Their recent forays had been devoted to tailing Valerie Vale. She often photographed subjects that seemed irrelevant.

Tonight, their prowling was aimed toward different ends. Bruce wanted to play detective.

Over the past several weeks, Jeremiah had spent every scrap of spare time attempting to track down the manifest he’d signed. He’d started by emailing Fries about the physical copy, which Fries said his assistant had misfiled after scanning it to the database.

It had taken Bruce’s security clearance to find which drive held the scans. They were, indeed, misfiled— _so_ misfiled as to seem deliberate.

The names of the deceased who had supposedly been in those pods were given only as initials and surnames. _F. Monroe_ and _J. Monroe_ —presumably a couple, the first gender-marked as female, the second as male. The birth years were given as 1947 and 1940.

“Something about the surname bothers me,” Bruce had said, “but…I’ve met so many Monroes.”

“We won’t get anything useful from this,” Jeremiah had replied. “We need to head to the source.”

Bruce had frowned. “Do you mean the warehouse Fries occupied while the city was cut off?”

“Precisely,” Jeremiah had said, relieved to see Bruce’s consternation turn deviously knowing.

Now, as they stalked through the quiet twilight, the warehouse loomed, and the river beyond.

“We need to work on the Docklands next,” Bruce said, opening the rusty door. “After you.”

Jeremiah took Bruce’s hand as he strode inside, tugging Bruce along, letting the door slam.

“What I’m starting to wonder,” Jeremiah whispered, “is why that couple’s surviving family waited until two _years_ after reunification.”

“To reclaim the bodies?” Bruce replied, staring at the high, moonlit windows. “Good point, especially with Victor better-funded than ever.”

“I suspect,” Jeremiah said, withdrawing his flashlight from his coat pocket, “that Victor’s records, in this case, conceal more than they reveal.”

Bruce’s expression beneath the brim of his black fedora was fetchingly, maddeningly dour.

“Were they the only clients he took while the city was cut off? The only bodies he brought—”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Jeremiah hissed, holding up his free hand. “Did you hear that? Sounded like…”

“Another door,” Bruce said, grabbing Jeremiah’s hand as the door, wherever it was, slammed.

Voices came next, hushed and frantic, leading them to the far end of the sprawling, crate-stacked, debris-strewn space.

Bruce dragged Jeremiah behind some plastic barrels stacked higher than their heads. There gaps for them to peer through.

Jeremiah studied the figures near the door. They were locked in some kind of tense stare-down, which was oddly intimate.

“Could you have picked a less appealing place to meet?” said the taller figure, whose voice sounded familiar. “Make it quick.”

“Pitiful,” retorted Valerie, who was unquestionably the shorter one. “Not used to hanging out in derelict buildings anymore?”

“Not really,” Jim said, sighing that irritatingly put-upon sigh of his. “Why are we here, Vale?”

“I wanted to ask if anyone out on beat has seen anything unusual,” Valerie replied cautiously.

“If she’s sold us out,” Jeremiah said, his teeth clenched, “maybe we ought to kill them both.”

Bruce stifled a laugh low in his throat. “I somehow doubt she’d try. Jim’s in our pockets, too.”

“Like what?” Jim asked. “You’re out of a job. Scraping the bottom of the barrel for freelance?”

“Like Victor Fries doing shady shit,” Valerie said. “I was hired to follow him around—private investigation’s more lucrative than journalism, in case you wondered—but all the guy does is go straight home from work, or run what look like legit errands.”

“You’re not gonna tell me who your client is, are you?” Jim asked unhappily. “Should I worry?”

“My client has a ton of new dirt on you,” Valerie said with smug poise. “Dirt I handed over.”

Bruce strode into the open, hands in his pockets. Jeremiah followed him, drawing the Zigana.

“It was fascinating dirt,” Bruce said, calm as Jim raised both hands and Valerie folded her arms.

“I wouldn’t push them too far, dear heart,” Jeremiah said placatingly. “Both of them are armed.”

“Commish isn’t,” Valerie said, drawing a gun from her pocket. “Spoil my fun, why don’t you.”

Bruce didn’t stifle his laugh this time, letting it echo in the vast space. “You were going to…?”

“Maybe,” Valerie said, folding her arms again, keeping her firearm in hand. “I hadn’t decided.”

“Which as-yet-unrevealed dirt?” Jim asked Bruce. “You have photos of all my worst monster hunts.”

“Worst doesn’t always mean fatal,” Valerie said dryly. “I initially gave them _just_ the fatalities.”

Jeremiah permitted himself a wide, satisfied smile as Jim grew uneasy. Ah, schadenfreude.

“What’s left is worse than you think,” Bruce said, “if the other person in the photos is who _I_ think. If they are, you have explaining to do.”

Jim glared sidelong at Valerie, lowering his hands a fraction. “What the hell didn’t you shoot?”

“Where you’re concerned? Not much,” Valerie said brightly. “My lens is thorough to a fault.”

Content to watch, Jeremiah switched off the flashlight, putting it in his pocket. Otherwise, he took aim at Jim, pleased when Valerie followed suit.

“You shouldn’t have known Five existed,” Bruce said, cutting to the chase. “None of the other Indian Hill escapees knew he existed till that night.”

“Fish likely did,” Jim said, not even attempting to resist. “There’s not much she didn’t know.”

“Hold on,” Valerie said, staring at Bruce. “You know who he was chasing in those shots?” 

“During his Pinewood Farms days, Hugo Strange had access to DNA from my parents, which they had archived for…reasons I don’t even know, actually,” Bruce said. “My theory is that the Court of Owls had already gotten to him. They seem to have commissioned him to create…I’m not sure Five’s a clone of me, not as such. Half or full sibling genetically engineered to resemble me as closely as possible, maybe. The Court and Strange must have known my parents were expecting. They obviously wanted to have the look-alike match me in age.”

Jim grimaced. “One of my more talkative captures tried to bargain their way to clemency. They asked me how many others I’d caught, so I told them. They made a point of letting me know how many others were still at large, at least that they could remember from when they were on that get-away bus being driven by Fish. They couldn’t remember everyone, but they sure could remember the kid who looked like Bruce Wayne.”

“Then you knew about the danger Five posed, given he escaped you so easily,” Bruce said angrily. “Yet you did _nothing_ to warn me and Alfred.”

“What would it have profited any of us?” Jim asked standoffishly. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Jeremiah traded looks with Valerie, pleased to note that she was just as fed up with Jim by now.

“Five could have killed me when he sedated me in that alley for the Court to collect and ship off,” Bruce went on, withdrawing his hands from his pockets. The effect on Jim was instantaneous—he stepped back, instantly putting his hands in the air. “He almost killed Alfred.”

“Selina, too,” Jim said, darting his unblinking eyes in Jeremiah’s direction, “or did you forget?”

“Say the word, and I’ll shoot,” Jeremiah said coolly, doing his best to mask his flare of fury.

“I’ve killed or almost killed every person I hold dear, at one point or another,” Bruce countered.

Jim shook his head. “I made a call. Maybe it was the wrong call, but I had to make it. I failed.”

“Damn, Jim,” Valerie said, uncocking and lowering her gun. “I ought to let them have at you.”

“Let me go,” Jim urged with admirable restraint, “and I won’t mention a word of this encounter.”

“You won’t mention Ms. Vale was here,” Jeremiah said. “That above all else, Commissioner.”

“Go,” Bruce said with disdain, “before I change my mind. Jeremiah won’t hesitate, trust me.”

“The days where trust was a feature of our relationship are long past,” Jim said, and walked out.

Before Jeremiah could escort Bruce from the stressful scene, Valerie caught hold of his arm.

“Thanks,” she said, and then released him to scrabble in her bag. “Here,” she said, offering a folder. “It’s the dirt I got on Fries, which…honestly? It’s not much. He goes home, he runs errands—rinse and repeat. The only thing that seemed odd…” She opened the folder, removing the top three or four photos. “He visits this building regularly. No consistent day of the week or time of day, usually before he heads to work at dusk.”

Bruce stared at the black-and-white shots, taking them from her grasp. He flipped through them.

“I don’t recognize this as anything other than a privately-owned historic building. Do you know—”

“Deed’s in the name of Kathryn Monroe,” Valerie said. “I thought you would’ve known that. Court of Owls lady, right? I didn’t think she survived…”

Jeremiah touched Bruce’s shoulder, realizing Bruce was frozen in something like distress.

“What can I do?” he implored, rubbing the spot consolingly. “I’m still at your command.”

Bruce shook his head, miserably glancing up at Jeremiah. “We might have to tell her.”

Jeremiah considered the cryptic statement for a few seconds before realizing Bruce was leaving the decision up to him. He pocketed the Zigana.

“Is this about Jerome’s casket having, like, _nada_ inside it?” Valerie asked. “Don’t worry, I didn’t shoot that detail. Kept it cover-up friendly.”

Jeremiah nodded, but let his bitterness show. “We now have reason to believe Victor has been mixed up with the Court for…quite some time.”


	9. Hunters

Jerome wasn’t usually alert first thing in the morning, but Five cuddled against him was hard to ignore. 

Half of Five’s face was hidden in the pillow, concealing the scar above his right eyebrow, his hair a wild, endearing mess. Jerome set tentative fingertips against Five’s cheek, and then combed his fingers through Five’s hair as he brushed it back.

“No,” Five mumbled, latching onto Jerome tightly, burying his face in Jerome’s neck. “M’tired.”

“Wish we could stay in bed, sweet pea,” Jerome sighed, “but we’ve gotta get ready for when your old lady finally realizes you aren’t in your room.”

Five huffed, his breath making Jerome shiver. “Fine. Let’s go over the plan one more time.”

Jerome reached across Five and tapped the handles of the impressive steak knives Five had brought with Jerome’s dinner tray several nights ago.

“We wait for when she knocks and carries on,” he said. “That’ll give us fair warning for when…”

“She’ll either pick the lock or have the Talons break down the door,” Five said, snuggling closer.

Jerome closed his fingers around one of the knife handles, lifting it above their heads, examining it in the scant light of dawn. He was startled when Five grabbed his wrist, bringing the knife down so that the cool flat of the blade was pressed against Five’s cheek.

“And then?” Five prompted eagerly, unblinking eyes fixed on Jerome’s as he leaned in for a kiss.

Jerome obliged him, stunned at how swiftly the knife’s inclusion seemed to arouse both of them.

“And then I throw this—” he tapped Five’s cheek, breathing even harder when Five took the knife out of his grasp and pressed the flat of it against Jerome’s collarbone “—if there’s a clear shot. If not, it’s a fuckin’ free-for-all. You’re faster than me, princess. These creaky old bones…”

Five was breathing faster, shifting his hips restlessly against Jerome’s. “Do you…like this, too?”

“Precious,” Jerome rasped, guiding Five’s wrist so that the knife was no longer flat, grinding into Five so that the blade’s edge bit his skin, “I like everything about bein’ with you.”

“Does that mean you want…” Five swallowed, taking over from Jerome’s urging, putting pressure on the blade. “Can I mark you with this?”

“The only scar worth havin’ is one you give me,” Jerome said, his voice rough, gasping as Five cut him just deeply enough for the burn to make his vision swim. “Fuck, babe, _yeah_ —”

Five moaned, hastily tossing the knife on the floor. He shoved Jerome onto his back, lowered his mouth to Jerome’s stinging collarbone, and ran his tongue over the fresh, shallow cut with ruthless precision.

Jerome couldn’t do anything but choke back a cry, clutching Five as he spilled between them.

“Wow,” Five whispered, kissing Jerome with his sweet, bloody lips. “That was...I didn’t know...”

Jerome wasn’t recovered enough for fine motor control, but he kissed Five back, using the momentum to roll them until Five was beneath him.

“You’re gonna look so good by the time we’re done with ’em,” Jerome panted, kissing from Five’s red-streaked chin down to his neck. When Five whimpered and arched under him, Jerome nipped at Five’s collarbone, and then kissed down to lick his nipples. “Princess, you drive me crazy, and I’m _already_ insane,” he said, nuzzling Five’s belly. “You don’t know how bad I wanna...”

Five wound his fingers in Jerome’s hair, tugging, urging Jerome lower. “Please, _please_ —”

Jerome had no memory of ever having done something like this. Probably never had. He licked the tip of Five’s cock, nerves alight when Five cried out sharply. He sucked in earnest now, fascinated by the salt-and-skin taste, holding Five’s restless hips in place until he sobbed and came on Jerome’s tongue, the traces no greater than what Jerome had already swallowed.

“Come here, Jerome, come _here_ , we don’t have…” Five was desperate, tugging at him.

“Not much time, darlin’, I know,” Jerome soothed, letting Five pull him up so they could settle close. He cradled Five’s blood-streaked jaw, realizing they were both covered. “We’re not much to look at, huh?” He kissed Five’s cheek when Five smiled.

“We only have what we slept in, so…” Five made a face when Jerome did, both of them reacting to the outrageous mess. “I guess we’re not.”

Five froze, and that was enough to spur Jerome into action. He wiped them down with the sheet and flung it aside, dropping down to the floor. He tossed Five’s leggings and kimono onto the bed, scrabbling clumsily for the knife and his pajama set.

“Footsteps,” Five hissed, already as dressed as he could be, belting the kimono tightly. “Here!”

Jerome let Five help him into his clothes, wondering if his twice-reanimated limbs would ever be the same. Bloody knife in hand, he watched Five grab the other knife from the nightstand, admiring how fearlessly Five put himself between Jerome and the door as someone knocked.

“Five?” Kathryn said coaxingly, with concern laid over an undercurrent of menace. “Are you in there? If you are, you have some explaining to do.”

“No, I don’t,” Five shot back, his stance shifting in a way that suggested training so extensive that by now combat was instinctual. “We fell asleep.”

There was a moment of silence, and then another knock so forceful that Five took a step back.

“If you think I’ll be fooled any longer,” Kathryn said warningly, “then I’m disappointed in you.”

“Hey, I hear ya,” Jerome said, rage welling up in him unchecked. “Kids, right? Can’t trust us.”

“If you don’t agree to open this door,” Kathryn went on, “I’ll have no choice but to force it.”

“Let’s see you try,” Five said, his cool arrogance more appealing than Bruce’s had ever been.

The next few minutes were endless. Five glanced over his shoulder at Jerome as several sets of footsteps returned. Someone began to pick the lock.

“I said it before, but…” He offered Jerome an earnest, guileless smile. “I really do love you.”

“I love you, too, precious,” Jerome said, winking at him, and that was when the bolt turned.

The door opened slowly, not what Jerome would have expected. It gave him less time to react, not knowing who would step inside first.

Five sprang into action before Jerome could even throw his knife. The Talon dropped fast, powerless against a forceful kick to the stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Five said, rounding on Kathryn before she could command the second Talon to attack. He sank his knife in the hollow of her throat.

It wasn’t until Kathryn fell and her mask came off that Jerome realized she’d been wearing one. Feathered and beaked, grey with a splash of blood.

Jerome whistled at the second Talon, who appeared to be studying their struggling comrade. 

Five grabbed the mask and stepped back. He put himself between Jerome and harm’s way.

The Talon who’d gone down struggled onto their knees, wheezing, and then stared at Five.

“My mother is dead,” Five said imperiously. “You answer to me now. Take care of the body.”

The unscathed Talon helped the other one up. One of them grabbed Kathryn under the arms, and the other took her ankles. They carried her out.

“I coulda used some help like that,” Jerome said, sliding his arms around Five’s waist from behind. “Not like my useless old man when I killed Mom.”

“You killed him, too, right?” Five asked, taking the knife out of Jerome’s hand, dropping it.

“Yep,” Jerome said cheerfully, kissing Five’s neck until he laughed. “Had to be thorough.”

“And your uncle, you said?” Five prompted, turning around in Jerome’s arms, gaze curious.

“This isn’t a competition,” Jerome replied, taking the mask out of Five’s grasp. He put it on Five.

“That’s not what I meant,” Five said. “You’ll never have to do anything like that alone again.”

“Five,” said Jerome, taking both of Five’s hands, admiring his masked face, “neither will you.”


	10. Victors

Bruce flipped through the photographs Valerie had given them at the warehouse several nights before. He and Jeremiah had gone to the building shown in most of them. While no one had answered the door, there had been lights on in the upper-floor windows.

At a loss, Bruce flipped the folder shut on the coffee table and lay down on the sofa. If he could get some rest, he might be able to figure out _why_ …

Bruce woke to the sensation of fingertips at his jaw. He yawned, blinking rapidly into the light.

“Olga brought this to me just now,” Jeremiah said, setting an expensive postcard-sized envelope on Bruce’s chest. “I haven’t opened it.”

“You could have,” Bruce said, holding it up in front of his face. He flipped it around, staring at what was scrawled on the front. _Joker & Jack_.

“It’s…addressed to both of us,” said Jeremiah, perturbed. “I wanted your opinion first.”

“On whether we ought to open it?” Bruce asked. “Yes, in case we’re being blackmailed.”

“Do you recognize that as any of the girls’ handwriting?” Jeremiah asked. “It’s not Martín’s.”

“No,” Bruce said, sitting up, ripping the envelope open. “It’s not Oswald’s or Edward’s, either.”

“Do you suppose our kept journalist has turned traitor?” Jeremiah asked. “Should I arrange—”

“No,” Bruce said, patting the space beside him. He stared at the card in his lap. “The Court.”

Jeremiah sat, tapping the owl insignia on the front. “Is that how you know?” he deadpanned.

“I thought they were gone,” Bruce sighed, opening the card. “Even if Kathryn survived, she…”

“Dinner invitation, no signature,” Jeremiah sighed. “Isn’t that address the building we visited?”

Bruce studied the handwriting. Something about it bothered him, but he couldn’t fathom what.

“Yes,” he replied, squinting at the postscript. “Bring the card, ring the doorbell, slide it under.”

Jeremiah looked thoughtful. “We should bring Victor along. Tell him we need a bodyguard.”

Bruce kissed him admiringly. “When actually, you plan to gauge his reaction to the location?”

Jeremiah shrugged, grinning slyly against Bruce’s lips. “You never miss a trick, dear heart.”

Victor answered his phone instantly. He dispassionately agreed to Bruce's proposed outing.

Two hours later, Olga didn’t protest making a stop at Wayne Industries. She glanced over her shoulder at Bruce and Jeremiah as Victor got in the front seat, studying their formal attire, and then side-eyed Victor’s protective suit.

Victor’s expression was implacable as they reached their destination. He didn’t react until Bruce told Olga to collect them in several hours’ time, hanging back while Bruce and Jeremiah mounted the stairs, rang the bell, and slid the card beneath the door.

“You shouldn’t go in,” Victor said with mild derision. “Former client of mine. Unpleasant.”

“We were invited, Victor,” Bruce said, realizing Jeremiah was the one who seemed nervous.

Victor shrugged, curiously unfazed as a Talon opened the door and held it. He followed Bruce and Jeremiah inside.

The Talon led them up several echoing, opulent flights of stairs, bringing them to a halt on the landing. A second Talon opened the ebony double doors from the inside, and both Talons escorted them into a high-ceilinged room with a long table and a crackling fireplace.

Bruce recognized the space. The effect it had on him was visceral, fight or flight. He felt Jeremiah’s hand curl around his.

At the head of the table, where Kathryn Monroe had once sat, there was an owl-masked figure in an off-the-shoulder black satin dress. Whoever she was, her hair was elegantly piled on top of her head, and she wore a pair of glittering diamond drop earrings.

“Where is Ms. Monroe?” Bruce demanded, unable to keep anger out of his voice. “What’s this about?”

“Where are your manners?” asked the young woman, something about the timbre of her voice making the hair on Bruce’s arms stand on end. Her eyes brightened as she set them on Victor. “Dr. Fries,” she said, sounding happy. “How have you been?”

“Please excuse my husband,” Jeremiah said, removing his hat and shades. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Fine,” Victor replied belatedly, “but my question’s the same as Mr. Wayne’s. Where is she?”

“Dead,” said the young woman, sounding melancholy. “My mother passed several days ago.”

“It’s about time,” Victor replied, causing Jeremiah to stifle a laugh. “What’s with the mask?”

Bruce didn’t know what to expect, so he just stared as their host ceremoniously removed it.

“Her will left everything to me,” Five said, smiling with strange, wistful sweetness, indicating a folder on the table. “Hello, Bruce—and Jeremiah, right? Jack of Spades and Joker? Kathryn was compiling as much information on your after-hours personas as she could find.”

Jeremiah was already looking for a way out, but the Talons locked the door and flanked it.

Bruce squeezed Jeremiah’s hand, attempting to calm him, swallowing his own sudden fear.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Why would Kathryn leave you this place? Did you kill her?”

“Princess sure did,” said a voice from the hall that turned Bruce’s blood cold. “I’m so proud.”

Jeremiah tightened his grasp on Bruce’s hand, standing his ground as Jerome swaggered into the room.

Victor looked bored. He sat down at their end of the table, glanced at Bruce, and said, “Told you.”

“Hiya, Doc,” Jerome said. Garishly dressed to the nines, he put an arm around Five. “Thanks for joinin’ us.”

“Always a pleasure to dine with you,” Victor said, glancing at Jeremiah. “Is your brother okay?”

“I dunno,” Jerome said. “Haven’t seen the weirdo since the last time I saw _you_ , Brucie.”

Instead of responding to Jerome, Bruce turned to Jeremiah. “Do you want to leave? We can.”

“No, you can’t,” Five replied, sliding his—her, _their_?—hand over Jerome’s forearm.

“Those two will kick your asses faster than we can,” Jerome said, nodding at the Talons. “Sit.”

“Resurrection did nothing for _your_ manners,” Jeremiah muttered under his breath, furious.

“Nope,” Jerome agreed cheerfully, pulling Five’s chair further out for him. “Neither time.”

“Serve our guests,” Five said, and the Talons left the room. “Start with Dr. Fries!” he called after them.

Bruce was already thinking ahead to the records he’d need to unlock. Pinewood Farms, for a start.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jeremiah seethed at Jerome, pulling out a chair for Bruce.

“Come _on_ , brother,” Jerome said, offering his hand across the table as soon as Jeremiah had taken a seat, too. “Just think how much fun it’s gonna be, each of us on the arm of Gotham royalty. Not bad for a couple of circus brats, huh?”

Bruce considered the situation, watching as Jeremiah folded his arms. He felt Five’s eyes on them. The Court was in dangerously competent hands.

“I’d like it if we weren’t at odds,” Five said, accepting a glass of wine from the Talon who’d returned with a tray of drinks. “My family and yours have had a business relationship for centuries. I’ve learned how we’re related, even.”

“Princess will tell you all about it,” Jerome said. “You won’t have to fight the eggheads on your board—or the one sittin’ next to ya.”

Jeremiah chewed his lip sulkily, and then looked at Five. “Will you keep Jerome in check?”

Five was irked by the question, but didn’t look at Jeremiah unkindly. “He’s not your enemy.”

Bruce reached across the table, shaking Jerome’s offered hand. “I can work with that,” he said.


End file.
